When I get out of the car my legs immediately protest the four hour drive I've subjected them to. My eyes are tired, my legs ache and my stomach is in knots as I slowly walk across the motel parking lot in search of room 117.
"More than a couple of hundred miles for this?" I mumble to myself as I pass room 101 in this Budget/Quality/Econo - whatever this cookie-cutter cut-rate motel is called. They're all the same. A cheap place to sleep, or do something else.
"Something else," I mutter, knowing that's what I came all this way for. Something else.
"What are you doing, Marie?" I ask myself as I pass room 111, and then admonish myself for talking to myself like I have been for most of my journey.
117. I take a deep breath before tapping on the door.
"Just walk right in," Blaine had told me when I spoke to him en route. "I'll be waiting for you."
When my knock produces no result I hesitate before reaching out for the doorknob. What's on the other side? A bunch of kids that have been planning to dupe this old white woman to come down here to rob her? They probably think anybody like that would have money, but that's not really this case here. We had a little but the IRA ain't what it used to be after the slide, and probably never will be.
"Just take my money!" I'm prepared to say, not wanting the alternative to happen as I touch the doorknob.
I turn it and it opens. The room, a basic cheap motel room, is dimly lit but someone is here. The bathroom light is on and someone is in the shower. There's a radio on somewhere - no, it's Blaine, signing. Marvin Gaye - I believe. Blaine wasn't even born when Marvin was murdered.
I like a lot of Marvin Gaye's music, so at least we have something in common, I think to myself. Oh sure, it's like we're twins separated at birth. The voice, it's not Marvin but it's not bad, and the words, "I'm hot like an oven and ready for your lovin'." What is that song? Sexual Healing. Good grief.
"Hello?" I say softly as I close the door behind me and dead bolt it securely, but my voice is like a child's, weak and frightened.
Steam is pouring out of the doorway, because the door isn't closed all the way, and I'm tempted to tear of my clothes and charge into the shower with Blaine. Go ahead, I tell myself. I've been talking a good game, trying to get and keep this young guy's interest. Time to put up or shut up.
I shut up. I set my pocketbook down on the dresser and look at myself in the mirror. Left the house looking fresh and crisp and now I look like I just spent 4 hours in a car. I try to brush the creases out of my pant suit and finally take the jacket off.
The light blue blouse is also showing the effects of being in the car that long, and there are dark patches under the arms because I've begun to sweat profusely. I look horrible - look every bit of my 57 years, and now the shower is turned off.
I clear my throat while trying to peek around the corner to see what's on the other side. Still time to run, and if he isn't what he claimed to be I could justify fleeing, but I only catch a glimpse of him through the fog.
He's black, alright. As black as black, just like I'm as pale as white can get. The skin I saw on his back was glistening and smooth. I clear my throat again and Blaine responds.
"Marie?" he calls out and I respond with a meek, "Yes, Blaine. It's Marie."
"Make yourself comfortable," he suggests, but I'm way too nervous for that so I stand there and wait in the center of the room.
After a minute, the door opens wide and a large form fills the doorway while steam oozes past the young man as he poses nonchalantly wearing nothing but a towel and a smile.
The face is boyish but what's below is anything but. Tall, well over six foot, and while he's not overly muscular, there doesn't seem to be an ounce of fat on him. His skin is shimmering, and he looks like a panther as he shifts his weight to his other foot and all of the muscles and tendons in his body react to the movement.
"I'm sorry," I say when I realize that Blaine had said something that I didn't catch, so mesmerized was I by the sight before me.
"I said that I told you to get comfortable," Blaine said in a voice that was neither cheerful or threatening. "I meant for you to take your clothes off."
"Here?" I ask, and realize that's a stupid question, because I wasn't going to go out to the parking lot and strip.
Blaine nods. The room is way too bright for this. I need really dim lighting these days, because while I'm in good shape for a 57 year old woman, I'm still 57.
My fingers move under Blaine's intense glare, fumbling with a task so simple a child could do it. Just as well, I think to myself as I work down the row of buttons, because I think the back of my blouse is soaking wet. I'm melting down in front of this man, a man who is probably used to women so much younger.
And my bra - I feel so foolish having bought this thing at Victoria's Secret. Seemed like a good idea at the time, because this brassiere made what you have look lush, full and youthful.
It did that, alright. The problem was that when it came off, so would the way I looked with it on. A single clasp in front was all that needed to be undone, yet I was frozen. Petrified by the thought of exposing myself to this young man.
A young man who was only wearing a towel around his flat stomach, and because the towel was one of those skimpy hotel towels that was threadbare, there was an unmistakable bulge that the inadequate cotton could not pretend to hide.
